Nearest Things 



BY 



Warwick James Price 



NEAREST THINGS 

BY 
WARWICK JAMES PRICE 



It may not be our lot to wield 
The sickle in the ripened field; 
Not ours to hear, on summer eves, 
The reaper's song among the sheaves ; 

Yet where our duty's task is wrought 
In unison with God's great thought, 
The near and future blend in one, 
And whatsoe'er is willed is done. 

— Whittier. 



PHILADELPHIA 
1919 



*> 






(\\ 



^ 



Copyright. 1919 by 
Warwick James Price 



OCT 13 1919 



©CU534267 



Acknowledgements and thanks are 
due to the publishers of The Bell- 
man, The Independent, Town and 
Country, Leslie's Weekly, Munseys 
Magazine, The Churchman, The 
Smart' Set. The New Idea, Hol- 
land's Magazine, The Christian 
Herald, Vogue and The Open Court 
for their courteous permission to 
reprint here verses which originally 
appeared in their kindly pages. 



To Davy 
the Admiral 
and the Judge 
who, as I know from happily lengthened 
intimacy, are assured with me that the 
best things lie nearest : friendship and 
the clinging hand of a laughing child, a 
cold muzzle pushed up into one's palm 
and the pageant of the seasons, dreams 
and books and work, hope and an endur- 
ing trust in over-ruling love and good. 



Growth 

(1100) 
Tradition, garbed in samite, gold-inwrought, 
Authority, in regal pomp arrayed, 
In austere majesty ruled human thought, 
As pious monks, low kneeling, blindly prayed : 
"Credo, Domine !" 

(1500) 
New worlds were rising over ocean's brim. 
New vistas opening out before men's eyes. 
And those who worshipped raised a clearer hymn, 
Which answered to the promise of the skies : 
"Spero, Domine!" 

(1900) 
Unreasoning faith, unsatisfied desire, 
Alike have yielded, like the April snow. 
And we, today, led surely on and higher, 
May, grateful-hearted, feel at last we know: 
"Video, Domine!" 



As Little Children 



"Once upon a time — ," so ran 

The open sesame to lands 
Where faerie folk and fun began, 

Beyond the bound where fact still stands. 
Now life is mostly prose, but rhyme 
Ruled half the world, once on a time. 

**Once upon a time — ," and lo! 

It seemed quite natural to meet 
With ogres ''dour and dread" (you know) 

And maids distressed — divinely sweet! 
Dick Whittington, in every chime, 
Lived in the flesh, once on a time^ 

"Once upon a time — ," the phrase 
Still stirs in me a vague regret ; 

I've come to sober, staider da3^s, 
I "know more," if 3^ou will, and yet 

I only see a pantomime. 

Where all was real "once on a time." 



Koheleth 

"Vanity of Vanities !" the Preacher sighed, 
A poet disillusioned by the tide 

Of the swift passing of the burdened days, 
Which left vain hopes, and little else beside. 

'The ceaseless swing of Time's encircled years, 
'The unending round of grief, joy, smiles, tears, 
"With, at the last, one door to ope and close — 
"No answer to the mystery appears." 

Yet is this all? Shall man, perplexed, dismayed, 
Cast down his cards before the hand is played ? 

Life is, and Love, and Truth ; a trinity 
To guide us ever onward, unafraid. 

The dim tomorrows do not heaven bind; 
Today enfolds it. If we seek, we find. 

Our joy shall lie in labor bravely wrought, 
Our high reward in serving humankind. 



A Good Today* 

Negative virtues are uncertain qualities. — PascaL 

To do no shameful act, to say 
No thoughtless or unkindly word — 
Such things can make, the world has heard, 
A good today. 

And yet it is not thus we pay 
Our Christian debts. We each must take 
An active path, if we would make 
A good today. 

Some traveler along life's way 
Must know our aid ; some noxious weed 
Be rooted up — to know indeed 
A good today. 



Petition 

I pray not that my years be crowned 
By fame; 'tis not— to be renowned — 

The whole of life; 
I pray not that my years be free 
Of labor; man's nobility 

Is born in strife. 

We climb the ladder of our days, 
Not by the rungs of empty praise, 

Nor in soft ease; 
We aid ourselves, when, self forgot, 
We aid another's harder lot. 

Thus God decrees. 

May I, then, live in all its truths. 

That understanding love which smooths 

My brother's way; 
And in his upward striving find 
That peace which knits all humankind. 

For this I pray. 



" Not to the Swift " 

Last night, in the city's heavy heat, 

My ears were filled with the weary drone 
Of sullen sound from the restless street, 

Telling in ceaseless monotone 
Of unending struggle for worldly place, 

Of the feverish fight for empty pelf, 
With the only meeds of the headlong race 

The wages of sin and the shackles of self. 

Tonight the psalm of the pulsing sea 

Speaks calm and clear of a duty done. 
Fulfilling the tasks of His decree, 

With no pause or question, from sun to sun. 
No envious, empty effort here, 

No human will, perverse and blind, 
No man-made planning, no halting fear, 

But the power and poise and peace of Mind. 



The Pool 

I know a sea-pool hid away 

Behind a stretch of beach, between 

A Httle range of sand-dunes grey 

And salt marsh sedges, rank and green. 

Upon its breast stout navies swim 

When childhood laughs, with care unknown; 
Men come and go about its brim, 

Enjeweled fine with shell and stone. 

The glassy calm of windless hours 

In minature is pictured here, 
And here the storm blast vents its powers, 

Abroad upon its wild career. 

The maiden dawn's first rosy blush 
And the still blue of noontide skies 

It answers, and the sunset flush 
Of glowing gold, e'er daylight dies. 

So is my pool the counterpart 

Of ocean's self, from brink to brink. 

So, too, one single human heart 
May mirror all of life, I think. 



I will Lift up Mine Eyes 

They rise above the level land 

In fresher, freer, purer air. 
As who would say: "We understand 

"That life imposes toil and care. 
'But here our hillside quiet heals 
The turmoil that the city feels." 

The country's touch instills a strength, 
Speaks clearly of abiding peace ; 

Until its benison, at length. 

Sets deep the seal of woe's surcease. 

The worries of the world below 

Fade fast where upland breezes blow. 

The help the Psalmist sought an'd found. 
With eyes turned towards Judean heights, 

Is open yet; true power abounds 

In dreamy days and star-watched nights. 

There rests a cure for half our ills 

Amid the calm of God's green hills. 



A New England Sunday 

A solemn stillness broods across the land, 
Bom not of summer nor the summer's sun. 

The breeze breathes softly where the tall elms stand, 
And over vacant fields cloud shadows rtm. 

The idle reaper and the well-worn wane 
In silent patience wait the need of man ; 

The scarlet poppies in the grey-green grain 
Dream on, unguessing yet the harvest plan. 

The counry folk, in unaccustomed best, 

With guarded tone and sober Sunday mirth, 

Seek church, whose bells proclaim the Day of Rest — 
A peaceful message to a peaceful earth. 



Nature's Resting Time 



Lead us by thy quiet "mays, 
Frosty nights and mellow days; 

Touch us gently, gently, Time. 
Let our spent life glide away 
Like an Indian Summer's day; 

Touch us gently, gently. Time. 

— Elaine Good ale. 



Dame Nature, Vicaress of her mighty Lord, 
Like her great Master, ever keep till last 
The purest wine. October was — 
October, with chrysanthemums ablaze, 
And dahlias, in whose glowing colors live 
Long-hoarded stores of Summer suns — the month 
Of purple splendors, bronze and crimson stains. 
Today, close treading on her gaudy dress, 
Come Indian Summer, sabbath of the year. 
Tomorrow — soon — each passing breeze will join 
In low, sad requiem for Summer's death. 
And Nature deck herself in sombre greys ; 
But this is still tomorrow. Pensive moods 
111 suit a carnival, whose balmy airs 
And wine-rich mists, which brim the valley's -cup, 
Bring to us perfect peace and banish care. 

Today the blackbirds, truant-like, flock back 

To wonder at the blue and gold mistake 

Which heaven spreads above them, while the sun. 

Knowing his August tyranny is past, 

Smiles down in genial warmth, as though h-e wished 

To leave us only pleasant memories. 

We drink in nectar with each breath we draw, 

The fabled fountain bubbles at our lips. 



Forgotten hopes find life, and stir anew 

The pulses of our plans ; now, now, we know 

The Indian's Summer, with us once again. 

It seems as though this good old world had reached 

Its second childhood, seems as though it strove 

To teach us, restless children, the great truth 

Of fullest rest to follow finished work. 

Beyond the hedge a sunny stretch of field, 

Whose gossamer gown scarce hides the tiny lakes 

That nestle in its dimples, seems to say, 

"I've done with thrift — my fallow time is here." 

A radiant present ! What to us are thoughts 

Of those long, lazy summer afternoons, 

When drowsy eyes forsook the printed page 

To look through half-veiled lids at cloudless skies? 

What, too, have we to do with that far time 

When crackling logs and shadows dancing low 

Fill out a homely comfort ? It is ours 

To look with thankful eyes at heaven's dome. 

Cloud frescoed, pure and clear as skies of June, 

To watch the purple shadows creep away, 

To thank all nature that such life is ours. 

At even-fall the sunset paints the world 

In richest color tones — and when at last, 

With half regret, we seek the lights of home, 

There goes with us a sense of rest and peace, 

Of beauty, and the fitness of God's world. 

That gives to life a countenance all new. 



To a Sea-breeze Inland 

Midsummer's stifling, sapping heat 

Quivered along the village street, 
Whose powdery dust lay pale on hedge and thicket. 

A dog-day stillness filled the air. 

Though broken shrilly here and there 
By katydids or some courageous cricket. 

Against the turquoise of the sky 

Hung poised a hungry hawk, his eye 
Scanning the sun-baked countryside for booty. 

All within sound and sight bespoke 

Old August's hot and heavy cloak 
Hung 'round an inland town in sultry beauty. 

Then you came wandering throu'^h the trees — 

An errant waft of ocean breeze — 
And, as your salty breath passed freshly o'er me, 

I heard the waves boom on the bar, 

I saw a sail-filled mast and spar, 
The road stretched off a sandy beach before me ! 

Your magic swept the meadow-land, 

And, lo ! the sedge on either hand 
Rimmed shell-sown pools, a childhood's haunt elysian 

A gull swung where the hawk had been, 

And then you passed — but I had seen 
The summer sea, and blessed you for the vision. 



Joie de Vivre 

The dancing Spring and the blossomed trees 
And the flowery stars in the newborn grass — 

'Tis a joy to Hve through a day with these, 
With these and the love of a tender lass. 

Comes sleepy Summer; soft clouds above 
In the deep blue over the bosomed wood, 

While the frogs intone little tunes of love 
Through the heavy heat. All life is good. 

Then the valleys fill with the Autumn's wine, 

And the changed wind colors and crisps the leaves 

And the breath of the earth is a thing divine— 
And love sings clear midst the yellow sheaves ! 

Then the Winter's wind and the snow-clad storm 
And the biting frost — and the welcome cheer 

That sits by the home-hearth, close and warm. 
True lore finds joy through the whole glad year. 



A Ballade of My Fortune 

''Titbottom suddenly exclaimed: 'Thank God! I 
own this landscape,' 'You!' returned I. 'Certainly' 
said he. 'Why' I answered, '/ thought this was part 
of Bourne's property?' Titbottom smiled: 'Does 
Bourne own the sun and skyf " — G. W. Curtis. 

The uplands and meadows across which I walk, 

The neighborhood wiseacres ever assert, 
Are Abraham Grey's, but I laugh at their talk ; 

It's nothing to me who may own the dirt. 

Long-hoarded dollars and cents exert 
A vast deal of power, but man's design 

May never a view into gold convert : 
The beauty of all the wide earth is mine ! 

The furrows and fences are yours, Mr. Grey, 

To use as you will without hindrance or hurt ; 
But, as long as you grant me a mere right o' way, 

It's nothing to me who may own the dirt. 

For me the brown bunnies frisk off a-flirt. 
For me, from each hedgerow and bush and vine. 

Lilts a welcome clear-toned from some song expert ; 
The beauty of all the wide earth is mine. 

The whispering winds through the willows that steal. 

The rain-swollen brook with its chuckle and spurt, 
I hold in fee simple, and surely can feel 

It's nothing to me who may own the dirt. 

From dawn, when the sun's rosy rays subvert 
The plots of the night, till, at day's decline, 

Low, lingering beams the dim world desert, 
The beauty of all the wide earth is mine. 



Prince, let me this final word insert : 

While the seasons shift and old Sol shall shine, 
It's nothing to me who may own the dirt : 

The beauty of all the wide earth is mine. 



A Bird's-eye View 

(After reading Father Tabb) 

'Life is a rarest flower!" 

Caroled the happy linnet. 
Yes," buzzed the bee, endorsing; 
"And love's the honey in it." 



The Best of Life 

With the birth of love all life seems good; 
Mayhap you will sleep less sound and long, 
Yet the day is filled with the swing of a song, 

And you walk with a world-wide brotherhood. 

Winning a love? Still a better life. 

The pulse beats faster with hopes and fears, 
And the heart looks on to the happy years 

When She shall at last be won — and wife ! 

But keeping a love ! Ah, that is best, 
The doubting, wondering hope is past. 
While trust and truth have brought at last 

The perfect Hfe of love and rest. 



Written in her Timetable 

This life's a journey. Stay at home 

Or wander at your will ; 
Follow all roads that lead to Rome, 
Or hold the hearth-side, still 

You journey — journey — every day; 
You have to go somewhere, some way. 

But Where and When and How we go 

Matters but little; it is whether 
We face the daybreak's rosy glow, 
And journey heart to heart together. 

''Fare forward, side by side!" nor care 
About the How and When and Where. 



A Sign of Spring 

(With Locker in Mind) 

My sweetheart knows it's spring, 
Not because the robins sing, 

Nor the gnats ; 
She knows it not by song. 
Nor because the days grow long, 

But by hats. 

There's a new one every year ; 
Some are dearer, all are dear, 

Each a prize. 
Have they not, then, any faults ? 
Ah! investigation halts 

At her eyes. 



Sine Qua Non 

Aflame with yellows, reds and blues, 
Running the gamut of the hues 
Begot of mold by sons and dews, 

My garden smiled. 
Between the sentinels of box, 
Clipped column-fashion, beamed the phlox; 
Behind, the bell-hung hollyhocks 

The eye beguiled. 

The little fountain tinkled cool, 
While, half seen in its placid pool 
Of amber glass, a sunset school 

Of goldfish darted. 
A bird sang clear of summer's powers, 
Above the text-approving flowers; 
The silent dial marked the hours 

As they departed. 

A peaceful picture. Was it, then, 
I was ungratefulest of men 
Not to enjoy it? — even when 

I heard the linnet? 
And, in its full perfection, saw^ 
The working of Dame Nature's law? 
Beauty? I grant — but with a flaw^: 

She was not in it ! 



Treasure 

An ebon case with ivory bands 
In her sanctuary stands, 
And all the gems of Ind are there, 
Costly, beautiful, and rare : 

Beiyl with its springtide sheen. 
Summery emerald's sun-shot green, 
Topaz with its autumn glow. 
Wintry diamond's ice and snow, 
Turquoise of Italian skies, 
Sapphires blue as naiads' eyes. 
Pearls from out the orient sea. 
Royal ruby's majesty. 
Opal's ever-shifting shade, ^ 
With the duller sard and jade — 
Fragments of a rainbow feast. 
Essence of the glowing East. 

Yet when dainty hands shall turn 
Gleaming gems that beam and burn. 
None, though prized at e'er so much. 
Shall be worth her lightest touch ; 
The rarest, rated by the book, 
Worth less than her level look ; 
Nor all could buy the smallest part 
Of her devoted, loving heart * 



The Birth of the Opal 

One lazy day, when Time was yet a youth 

And Greece was all the world and fable truth, 

The gathered gods — some jest had stirred the 

thought — 
Decided that a jewel should be wrought; 
A jewel fairer than the fairest flower, 
Unknown, unthought, undreamed-of till that hour. 

The sun-god first, Apollo, gave one ray, 

Fresh plucked from off the glowing orb of day ; 

Chaste Dian gave a moonbeam, matching this. 

As faintly fragrant as a mother's kiss ; 

A purple aster then Dame Ceres gave, 

And Neptune snatched the foam-crest from a wave ; 

All-thundering Jove, benign in majesty, 
Gave next a patch from out the bluest sky ; 
And Vulcan added, last, a tongue of flame — 
And so the blushing, blinking opal came. 
And from that day, the fair who wears the stone 
Has made the gifts of all the gods her own. 



The Best of the Months 

I love pale April's budding-time, 
Her green trousseau of filmy veils 
Flung o'er the trees; 
And May, when nature runs to rhyme, 
Telling again her sunny tales 
To birds and bees. 
Dearly I love swart summer, too, 

When June's full-blossomed beauty rare 
Spring's promise keeps. 
'Neath August's skies of cloudless blue. 
Lulled by hot silences of air, 
All out-door sleeps. 
Then soft September paints the hills, 
And spreads the meadow-lknds with gold 
In stalk and sheaf. 
October with her nectar fills 

The valley's cup — and then, behold 
A falling leaf! 
So from these gifts I turn, at last. 
To seek the fireside and the home, 
Its love and lights. 
Ready to bless December's blast, 
That heaps the snow in peak and dome 
Through lengthened nights. 
And yet, with every month so rich 
In all that must uplift and cheer, 
My choice is plain: 
I best love January, which 

Brings to my hand another year 
For growth and gain. 



My Garden's Trinity" 

My quiet garden lured my guest ; 

Fair flowers he held all else above ; 
Yet : "This I know not," he confessed, 
"This crimsoned warmth from sunset's west?" 
Then I : " 'Tis Love." 

"And see this splendid bloom," he said, 

"Yellow as gold without alloy; 
"Laughing up at us from its bed 
"As if mere living turned its head ?" 
Then I : "That's Joy." 

"And look," he said; "that blossom there, 

"As white as snow or bleached fleece; 
"Fit for the purest maid to wear, 
"Or for some pale Madonna's hair." 
Then I : " 'Tis Peace." 

"Thrice fortunate!" said he. "The Fates 

"Have open-handed dwelt with thee! 
"Most men rejoice if their estates 
"Hold one of these ; within thy gates 
"Thou hast all three." 



Th)^ Work 

What work is thine? 
No one of us, in his own single might, 
Is sent to set a wandering world aright. 

By call divine. 

Thy work lies near ; 
Yea, next thy hand, with pregnant promise stored; 
Nearest of all things, yet too oft ignored, 

Because so near. 

Then do not shirk. 
Act now, and well, and confident in heart; 
'Tis thus a man most fitly plays his part. 

Thou hast thy work ! 



Reasons 

*'What's the use of all this work, 
"Crowding close each hour of life? 
"Why not lay it down — and shirk?" 
(How about your wife?) 

"What's the use of struggling so, 
"Merely for a mede of pelf? 
"Let the other fellow grow !" 
(How about yourself?) 

"What's to gain from toil and try, 
"With their endless push and plod? 
"Why not quit — and play?" said I. 
(How about your God?) 



The Preacher Sparrow 

The sea had on a cloak of mist, 

Wrought white with foam along the edge; 
The sky had veiled herself with gray; 
And all about, look where one list — 

Dun beach, dull greens of grass and sedge' — 
It seemed a heavy-hearted day. 

Then, on a sudden, from the dunes. 

There came a song-sparrow's happy voice, 
To break the silences above. 
And through the little lilting tunes 
I heard a whole wide world rejoice 
For those best gifts of home and love. 



A Sea Change 

All yesterday blue heaven's dome 
Smiled blessings on a sun-bathed sea, 

Whose filmy caps of silver foam 
Spoke more of mirth than majesty. 

But Mother Nature, 'twixt the suns, 
Her subtle alchemy made plain; 

Changed laughing blues to sullen duns, 
And loosed the flood-gates of the rain. 

And now the gale, in boisterous strength. 

Lashes the swollen tide along, 
Re-echoing down the sand's drenched length 

The savage surges' ceaseless song. 

The sad world veils itself in grays, 
Nun-like and mourning in its lot — 

Yet dreams of all the coming days 
Of peace enjoyed and storms forgot. 



Only a Dog 

They've written me that you have died, 
They've told me how you met your end: 

Would I had been there at your side, 
Staunch-hearted little friend! 

Next week I shall be home once more — 
How still and dull the house will be ! 

You used to greet me at the door, 
In full-voiced ecstasy. 

A bit of branch upon the grass. 

Means nothing now. But yesterday 

We both saw in it what would pass 
An hour's light-hearted play. 

Your ball, your cushion, and the bell 
You learned so cleverly to ring. 

All these mementoes now will tell 
The same dark, dreary thing. 

It is a help to know you spent 

Your years far better than I mine ; 

To constant cheerfulness you lent 
A trust almost divine. 

And miss you as I must, how real 
The influence of our friendship true ; 

For all God's commoners I feel 
More love, because of you. 

And when old Charon takes my far** 
And pilots me to Styx's coast, 

The very first to greet me there 
Will be your little ghost. 



PRINTED BY 

Walter Hunter Company 
1534 sansom gt., philadelphia 



